


Big Boys Don’t Cry (Except for When They Do)

by gaypasta



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaypasta/pseuds/gaypasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Dan doesn’t cry and one time he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Boys Don’t Cry (Except for When They Do)

Daniel hears crying. Loud, uncontrollable wailing that pierces his ears and nags at his brain from the blissful box of childish enthusiasm of a 6 year old child. Loud games and loud playgrounds don’t phase him, loud children nor loud babies are accompanied in the steel walls of noise capacity without the sharp pains and migraines of which adults would experience.

Heart beating in time with small feet thundering down the stairs into the lounge where his parents are standing over the new branch of the family tree, much like he had done the past 7 days at each call of distress as if a newborn crying were an air-raid horn warning him of the destruction of his home and heart. Bare feet and stumpy legs pad across the snow-white carpet, walking out to the legs of his only friends, their long legs and giant bodies crown over a wicker basket where Daniel’s newest friend is secluded.

 

Tiny fingers tug urgently on the back of his mother’s skirt, she is his favourite friend because she stays at home while Papa is at work all day and plays with him. Sparkling chocolate eyes, filled with anticipation and curiosity clash with tired and sunken cerulean warnings to go back upstairs.

 

He wants his friend, he wants to play.  Dolls and cars and crayon and card is merely  decorating time with drawings of perky yellow suns in  left hand corners and triangle topped houses with candy floss trees isn’t worth the stained hands and broken crayons if they’re kept in a drawer or pinned behind black and white shopping lists with slanted handwriting on the fridge.

 

Tiny hands tug on Papa’s jeans. Papa is stronger than Mummy and used to turn the kitchen into the skies with Daniel on his shoulders, piloting a landing to the Sun while Mummy chopped vegetables and laughed through teachings of planets,  _‘You can’t go to the sun, Daniel- it’s too hot’._

  
_'No, Mummy! I’ll go at night don’t be silly!’_

 

Short puffs of impatience and excitement push past delicate lips- burning the ears of his friends who sharply told him to be quiet. Daniel doesn’t cry; he’s a big boy, crying is for kids. Dejection isn’t a word he quite understands yet, a box of sadness grasps his heart and starves it of blood for a few seconds and he holds his breath to not let out whines of hurt.

 

Delicate tiptoes and careful balancing don’t treat him another glance of his brother, all he remembers is a wrinkly red face and loud shrieks, but on the phone Mummy calls his brother soft and pale with bright blue eyes and a patient tummy. Maybe if he moved closer to where Mummy is standing and cooing he could see. He edges his way in-front of his mother and rose up again to his tiptoes, brown curly locks edging against his mother’s tummy.

 

A short whisper of his Fathers name bristle under the never ending shrieks from the newborn and firm hands find their way under Daniel’s armpits and his mother’s pale legs get farther away as the white carpet drags like a shadow in reverse under the space of small feet.

 

Big boys don’t cry but Daniel isn’t big enough to open the living room door by himself yet and he issn’t big enough to tell the time or do maths or wonder why his parents hadn’t played with him since Alex had been born.

 

Big boys don’t cry, but sleeves and pillows do.

* * *

 

Dan hears crying. Quiet, breathy weeping muffled by an overly articulate BBC news anchor on the TV downstairs. His slightly muddy hands gently turn the knob of his bedroom door and his feet move down the staircase as softly as his 13 year old body can muster.

 

His brother gently pokes his head out of his bedroom door and Dan shakes his head and motions Alex to go back to playing with his friend.

 

No one likes their mother crying, a simple fact of life. The soft sounds drift into Dan’s ears and into his bloodstream like iron and his heart is getting heavier and heavier he feared his feet won’t lift off the ground.

 

The door opens and Dan isn’t sure what he is doing but  he has to do something as the whimpering was like music that makes the rain feel like home and makes his tongue turn to stone and his heart beat slow down as if it were beating in time to a hymn of a funeral for a loved one lost and he wanted to change the station.

 

 

His mother’s eyes are rimmed red and tears streamed out like the blue oceans behind her eyelids were crying and Dan issn’t sure if he’s ready to swim into the cause and not drown without a life jacket. The news anchor is drilling into his temples and he can feel his head heat up at the distraction and the more he tries to ignore it the more he focuses on it. The louder the incessant London accent beats into his head and fills his thoughts up like a balloon and suddenly his sight is blinded and all he can see is the face of the convicted rapist on TV and his mother’s tearful shouting is barely ghosting over his brain and the dimple in his cheek feels like the centre of the universe.

 

He could feel his legs moving backwards and he felt like the room was closing in on him and the only things that would ever be tattooed into his eyelids was the TV and he needs to get out, he needs to get out of the box of soft sobbing and sorrowful shouting and he needs to sift through his thoughts because they’re coming at him at 200 miles an hour and he can’t read that fast and words are merging together and thoughts and ideas settled over each other and words were blurry and it was itching his brain and he wants to tear his hair out because he can read all his thoughts but he can’t comprehend them. He ignores the loud blubbering of his mother and focuses on the rhythmic tune of his feet barrelling up the stairs.

 

Dan is stood in front of the bathroom mirror. His dimple wasn’t visible but he feels it carving into his face like a cleaver. Dark brown eyes feel like a black hole and he was getting sucked into it and he can’t get out. The TV screen scarred into the back of his mind and he pulls his hair to try to replace the dark tanned skin with searing white hot pain and it won’t go away.  

 

The Howell family tree was written on paper with fine ink and Dan was written on a napkin with a blue biro and stapled onto the sides and he’s never noticed how easily it is to rip the staple out and unfold his genetic fraud to the world until now. He’s not a real Howell and he’s not sure who he is and he doesn’t know if he wants to know.

 

His papers dotted with A’s and praises from teachers were always hidden behind  perky yellow suns in left hand corners and triangle topped houses with candy floss trees on the fridge and shopping lists were left on the window sill.

 

He strips of his clothes and they pool around his feet, he feels the heaviness of his genetics pump through him and his blood is hot and he swears he’s going to burn from the inside out. The shower cuts him like ice and the goosebumps on his skin help him feel real and the pain seeks him out and cradles him and he feels as if something wants him at last.

 

Big boys don’t cry, and Dan’s a big boy. He knows what sex is and he knows where babies come from, he’s allowed to walk to school on his own and he knows most of the words in the newspaper and now he knows why he was born a year before his parents met.

 

Big boys don’t cry, but showers do.

* * *

Dan hears crying. Dan also sees crying. His mother is crying at the kitchen table while his Dad looks on him in disgust. Alex hasn’t looked at him since the words left his mouth.

 

He tries to focus on the plate of half-eaten food in front of him instead of the gush of tears and words leaving his mother.

_'What did we do?’ 'Dan, no you’re a good boy don’t say that.’ 'It’s just a phase, Dan- it’s just a phase!’_

 

Dan shakes his head and he feels his little brother’s foot gently nudge against his in a silent form of sibling support. Dan doesn’t pretend that it helped, because when your Mother is crying in disappointment at you  because you’re dating the boy from 6 doors down, a tap on the foot isn’t going to help.

 

His Father calmly eats his dinner beside him and it is unnerving him. His body is filling up with anxiety and he feels like if he takes so much as a breath, his Father will whip around and bellow in his face. His mother continues crying, and Dan’s ink-stained hands tug on the long black sleeve of his favourite shirt and tries to keep his fingers moving to use up some of the energy that his bubbling anxiety is giving him.

 

He needs to get out,  he needs to get out of this tiny dining room and into his room or out into the streets- he just needs to feel like he can breathe again. He needs to see his boyfriend because God knows he’s the only one who keeps him sane and it kills him that he’s dependant on someone else and he feels so small because he can’t do it alone and his boyfriend fucks other guys when he’s not around but he can’t do it alone.

 

He hears his Dad say words. Words which carve into his brain and neck and sink into his throat and he can’t speak and he can’t breathe and he can hear lullabies in his head and he can feel crayon stains on his hand and he can see cotton candy trees out of the kitchen window. Suddenly Dan isn’t quite sure why he hated being called Daniel anymore because the name is honey sweet and wrapped in a neat package of drawings on card and coins from the tooth fairy.

 

_He can’t see his boyfriend anymore and he can’t do it._

 

Dan excuses himself to his room and he doesn’t have any concept of time and actions and movements are blending together and he can’t remember how he got from the dining room to his bed but his room is dark and the house is silent and the silence is a noose around his throat and he can’t think, he just wants to get out of the silence and the noise and the in-between, because silence chokes his lungs and noise makes his head hurt and the in-between nags at his brain and fills him with anxiety and loneliness and he just feels so out of loop.

 

He feels energy building up and he is pacing round the room and the constant  _pat pat pat pat pat pat_ on the floor is making his head tick and his fists clench and everything is on fire and he needs to cool down, his bloodstream feels like molten lava and he needs to cool off.

 

He sits down on the bed and shakes his head at the thoughts of how fucked up this all is and opens his bedside locker. His medicine is here and his therapist is cool and light in his hand and his body is an anchor and his wrist is the rope and he needs to be free before his lungs fills up with water and he can already taste the salt in his mouth.

 

Big boys don’t cry, but wrists do.

* * *

 

Dan hears crying. It’s loud and piercing and it jerks him awake.

 

Dan blinks wearily at the sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains and brings the blanket closer to his naked chest as he feels goosebumps bristle on his forearms. He yawns and his ears perk as he hears a groan from beside him.

 

He feels warm arms wrap around his waist and a soft pair of lips gently peck at his tanned shoulder and he relaxes into the embrace.

 

“Mornin’, beautiful.” His husband murmurs behind him, and Dan can’t help but snort.

 

“Morning, Phil.”

 

He turns himself over so he can look at his husband and he feels his goosebumps intensify and his heart skip a beat because after  6 years, Phil is still the most beautiful thing Dan has ever seen.

 

Phil gently peppers his face with kisses, and sluggishly gets out of bed to feed their son his breakfast, which he apparently wants early this morning.

 

Dan lies in bed for a few minutes, slowly allowing himself to be properly woken up when he hears a low soft voice singing across the landing, followed by the giggles of their  10 month old son. Dan wasn’t sure if he’s ever heard anything as melodic as that.

 

The sunlight from the curtains seeps into his blood and his heart pumps the gentle serene joy through his body and Dan hasn’t been happier in all 24 years of his life. He smiles at the doorway when he sees Phil spinning their son around and making airplane noises. He chuckles into his hands and his eyes catch on the deep, white scar tissue that runs from his elbow to his wrist – decorated with faded scars of timid self-loathing.

 

He feels the sunlight slowly seep through his veins and onto his scars and it’s burning and his body is cold and the images of the seeds of self-loathing and depression flashed behind his eyelids and he hates it. He hates the ugly scars and the constant reminder of how close he was to suicide if it weren’t for his nosy 11 year old brother.

 

His eyes catch on Phil’s appendix scar, faded with equal amount of age as his own and Dan finds his heart beating regularly again and the images leave. He met Phil in the hospital during a late night-exploration and Dan was a sad 17 year old boy and Phil was a giggly 21 year old boy and after 3 days they were kissing when the nurses weren’t looking and they didn’t even know each other’s last names.

 

Dan can feel his lungs fill up with nostalgic love and there’s no room and his tear ducts can’t hold it all in.

 

Dan’s drip gave kept him alive but Phil kept him living and after all those years; Dan’s heart finally beats in time with someone else’s and his breath finally inhales love and exhales content and his body isn’t an anchor anymore.

 

Dan was never wanted in the Howell family, so he made his own. The Howell-Lester household wants him and needs him and Dan feels loved unconditionally and Phil knows Dan feels the same way about him.

He’s not an anchor anymore, but he can still taste salt.

 

Big boys don’t cry, but sometimes they do and that’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This was almost called Timeline of Tears and that’s how i felt writing it tbh


End file.
